Raw Bloody Power

Chapter 25

25

GROUND, SWALLOW ME WHOLE

Ivory

Do you know how difficult it is to be creative when you’re shame spiraling? It’s been three days since my little rendezvous and I’m still drowning in first and secondhand embarrassment. It’s like sexting while you’re drunk, and then sober you feels nothing but disgust and regret the following morning. If I could crawl in a hole and die, I would.

First, I throw myself at Benedikt like a desperate bitch in heat, and then I let Rio dick me down as if Benedikt’s fingers hadn’t been inside me fifteen minutes prior. And let’s not forget I threatened his life just days before that.

What. In the actual fuck. Is wrong with me?

I cringe for the millionth time as I pipe the last petal of a pink buttercream rose .

“You good over there, Ivs?” Dascha asks from across the workspace.

Snapping my head up to meet her brown-eyed stare, I nod and plop the sugary creation on top of the small two-tiered cake with an icing spatula. “Yeah, I’m just…” Slowly dying of mortification. “Worried about my brother.”

Her lips thin sympathetically. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay, I guess. Resting, processing. The realization that he’ll likely never go pro is hitting him the hardest.”

Actually not a lie. Sandro isn’t taking that well at all.

“Dito,” she concedes, that warm, familiar Nuyorican twang laced in that little word. Bless him. Teeth sucking follows and a shake of her head. “My mom lit a prayer candle for him on her altar, by the way. I forgot to tell you yesterday. Perhaps San Pedro Pio will work his healing hand.”

A hushed laugh bursts from my throat, a small smile tilting my lips at the memories that resurface at the mention of prayer candles and altars. Nonna used to do the same thing. “Matriarchs and their altar candles.”

“Right? She’s got like six of them going right now, all for different people. Do you know how creepy it is to wake up in the middle of the night for a glass of water and walk past the Virgin Mary’s face lit only by candlelight? I swear her eyes follow me.”

“Oh, trust me, they’re following you,” I cackle, carefully piping another rose. “My grandma had a huge Jesus on the cross hung over her altar and I couldn’t look at it at night without goosebumps prickling my skin. That thing was so detailed, too. Blood from the thorns, tears in his eyes.”

Dascha nearly crawls out of her skin as she soaks another sponge layer in our simple syrup mixture. “Okay, that tops Mary for sure. I’d drop to my knees and confess all my sins.”

I nearly blurt it’s me who needs to go to confession after the unholy activities I participated in over the weekend, but catch myself with a bite of my tongue and simply hum accordingly instead.

We continue working with an easy flow of conversation. Dascha assembles and crumb coats a wedding cake scheduled for pick-up in two day’s time, while I add the finishing touches to a simple, full buttercream baby shower cake. Jenn floats around us, too, since she’s been promoted to an assistant of sorts, mixing up batches of batter and frosting from the lack of a current storefront. She’s a quick learner, and although it’s not rocket science, doubling and tripling recipes isn’t is always the easiest task. I might take her on as an apprentice once we find a new, permanent location and hire someone else to man the register instead.

“Not to toot my own horn or anything, but this ganache came out really good,” she quips, dragging her finger along the whisk as she pads over to the sink.

“You’re a natural,” Dascha concurs. “I’m willing to bet a hundred bucks you’ll be decorating with me and Ivs here in a few months.”

Jenn scrunches her face, the look she’s passing between us nothing short of uncertain. “Ehhh, I don’t know about that. I’m not the greatest at baking. ”

“You also couldn’t make a smooth ganache last week, and you just did it with your eyes closed,” I point out, setting the finished cake into the fridge. “I’m with Dasch on this one. Side note, I’m running out to grab lunch. Do you guys want anything?”

“Depends,” Dascha throws over her shoulder, her tone playful yet knowing.

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’re about to say you’re getting pizza… again.”

“I wasn’t.” I definitely was. “In the mood for anything specific?”

“I could go for Jersey Mike’s,” Jenn offers, looking to Dascha, who’s already mulling it over.

After a beat, she bobs her head. “I’m down.”

“Text me what you guys want.” Pulling off my apron, flour-dusted and frosting-smeared, I hang it on the rack and grab both my purse and coat, bursting out the door into the gloomy autumnal afternoon.

The chill hits me immediately, the kind that slaps you in the face and seeps into your bones, reminding you winter will be here soon enough. Leaves rustle about with small billows of wind, falling on windshields in a decorative array of burnt oranges and fading reds. I shiver as I make way down the worn pavement. It’s not a long walk, but I might need to defrost by the time I make it back.

I try to keep busy to avoid deep-diving into my shame spiral again, focusing on the sounds of the city, counting leaves and taxis as they whiz by, but my mind eventually succumbs. I’ve been blowing Benedikt off since the other night, not only because I’m too embarrassed after begging him to fuck me but because I don’t know what to say to him. I’m the reason he had to deal with Rio, putting him in harm’s way for my own petty reasons. We spoke briefly the morning after where I made an effort to ask if he was okay. He mentioned something about his nose being slightly swollen and how he won’t be indulging in a Coke any time soon, but I didn’t ask him to elaborate. He’s texted me a few times since. I haven’t responded.

Everything’s just…different somehow.

Eight blocks and ten frozen fingers later, I’m pushing my way into Jersey Mike’s. There’s a line, of course, thanks to the lunchtime rush. I take my spot at the end and pull out my phone for some entertainment, noting Dascha’s text on the home screen…along with a series of others from a number I recognize but don’t have saved to my contacts.

Unknown

You know how they say some dudes have devil dicks? Yeah well Idk what kind of demon pussy you have between those thighs, but I’m a man possessed, feining like a crack addict for his next fix.

I need you, and frankly need doesn’t cover it.

Tomorrow. 6pm. Our old spot.

If you’re not there by 7, I’ll take that as a fuck you. No need to reply.

My first thought ?

He can’t be serious.

The very next?

Well, it’s not so much a thought as it is an instant, double-the-speed replay of the best sex I’ve had in my life that leaves me clenching my thighs as my clit throbs.

Rio and I always had good sex. I was one of the lucky few who lost my virginity to someone who wasn’t the typical selfish teenage lover, only worrying about getting himself off. No, Rio always wanted me to come first. He made sure of it. However, looking back now, that was nothing compared to the absolute ecstasy he brought me to over the weekend. How rough he was, the things he said, how he still knew all the ways to play my body, yet each touch was so refined and all the more intense.

More.

Again.

Do it.

It’s nothing but a whisper in my mind, and yet as certain as I am that it can never happen again, I can’t stop thinking about it—not after lunch, or when I make it home and check on Sandro, or when I’m in the shower and I set the detachable shower head to the place where my deranged self wants Rio’s touch most.